


I'll keep you warm (underneath the christmas lights)

by echoes_of_realities



Series: be my fire in the cold universe [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, F/F, Fluff, I seriously can't believe it's been a Whole Year since I wrote be my fire in the cold, The Nutcracker, Theatre, absolutely W I L D, surprise I'm back in this universe with a Quick Christmas fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 21:33:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21945643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoes_of_realities/pseuds/echoes_of_realities
Summary: Santana hates being in the audience of anything because she wants to be backstage managing the show instead of just watching it. She hates it even more when it’s a show that she used to run.One-shot in thebe my fire in the cold (and I’ll be your mistletoe)universe.
Relationships: Santana Lopez/Brittany S. Pierce
Series: be my fire in the cold universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580059
Comments: 2
Kudos: 53





	I'll keep you warm (underneath the christmas lights)

**Author's Note:**

> The final editing of the last chapter of the leather jacket fic has been going uhhhhhh let’s say Slow ~~read: impossible atm because of writer’s block for the final scene because I want it to be perfect lol~~ so instead I thought I’d do a small Christmas thing instead. 
> 
> Trying to cure writer’s block for one fic by writing another? In my writing process? It’s more likely than you think.
> 
> Title from “Keep You Warm” by Sam Tsui and Kina Grannis.

Santana decided that she hates sitting in the audience of anything—movies, shows, speeches, you name it—when she was really young. After falling in love with stage managing when she was eighteen, she quickly figured out it’s because she wants to be backstage managing the show herself.

Looking back on her childhood, a lot of things suddenly clicked for her—kind of like when she realized she was very definitely really, really gay and looked back on her pre-teen years and realized exactly how many crushes she had actually had on girls throughout middle school. Her mom used to take her to Columbus whenever they had a little extra cash, treating herself and her daughter to whatever musical or play or dance troupe happened to be touring through Ohio that year, and she used to love and hate those mother-daughter outings in equal measure. She loved spending time with her mom, but she hated the shows itself. She would never have told her mom it, because she hated upsetting her mom more than anything in the world, but she found it near impossible to actually sit through those shows, because she was always impatient and annoyed—realizing it was because she wanted to be the one in control of the show was so relieving because she could finally explain to her mom why she was always hyperactive as soon as the theatre went dark and the show lights went on.

Her mom, of course, had suspected that her daughter was just impatient and desperate to be a part of the show somehow, because mom’s are like that, and took her daughter squirming and sighing throughout the entirety of every single show they saw together in stride—it was good that Maribel Lopez had the patience of a saint and years of experience as a nurse exerting restraint, because whoever was unlucky enough to sit on Santana’s other side had difficulty containing their annoyance at the fidgeting teenager beside them.

She hates sitting in the audience even more when it’s a show that she used to run; especially because she spent nearly twelve hours every single day for a whole month last year running the show she’s currently watching. And she’s even more impatient and desperate to head backstage for this particular show then she is when it comes to a show she hasn’t stage managed before.

In other words, it’s basically torture for her to sit in the audience and forcefully resist the urge to jump up and sneak backstage to take over the show, but she doesn’t really think that Quinn would appreciate that, considering that this is her first run as the production stage manager and not just an assistant.

But Santana knows too much about the behind the scenes of _George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker_ to be content just watching from the sidelines, and if her neighbours’ annoyed glares are anything to go by, her twitchiness is more than a little obvious and definitely more than a little annoying.

Thankfully, the show is well into the second act by now, which means there’s just the _Waltz of Flowers_ , the re-entrance of the Sugar Plum Fairy and her cavalier, the _Finale_ , and the bows left, and then Santana can stop jiggling her foot up and down in the audience and annoying her seat-mates. She’s always been the type of person who has to be _doing_ something, and watching a show when she could be managing it instead is just frustrating in a million ways.

It feels like she blinks and the cast are coming out to take their bows, and then— _finally_ —all the audience members start filing out of the theatre. Santana grabs the bouquet of flowers hidden under her seat and checks them to make sure they aren’t crushed too badly; it’s not like she has a very good reputation for having pristine flowers because something _always_ ends up happening—whether a freak rainstorm or an uneven sidewalk or a drunk on the subway getting too close—but she’d _like_ the bouquet to look like they hadn’t gone through a garburator for once in her life.

A couple of the stems are bent in a way that looks like one of her seat-mates stepped on them, but other than that, the flowers are actually in decent shape, which is a little surprising.

She weaves her way impatiently through the crowd of shuffling audience members still blinking blearily in the too bright house lights after over two hours spent in the dark. She knows this theatre like the back of her hand, so it doesn’t take her long before she finds her way to the back of the theatre. Even though it’s been a year since she ran this show, she’s still a familiar face around the theatre, and security barely gives her a second glance before waving her backstage.

She waves greetings to some of the cast members who were recast this year, avoids the sound guys like they have the plague, and stops to playfully make fun of how Quinn’s running the show, before she finds her way back to the principal hallway. She follows the familiar sound of banging to the end of the hallway, dodging around racks of costumes and props and half-dressed cast members, before she reaches the door she’s looking for.

The door is slightly ajar, so she pokes her head through the crack and almost laughs out loud at the sigh that greets her—the Sugar Plum Fair is half dressed in her bodysuit and a pair of old, ratty sweats that Santana is almost positive were buried in the bottom of the hamper this morning, and her blonde hair is still pinned up but her tiara is tossed haphazardly on the dresser beside a couple of dirty makeup wipes.

She’s smacking her ballet shoes against the wall with a candy cane sticking out of her mouth, and Santana takes a moment to smile at the nostalgia of it all, before she clears her throat.

The Sugar Plum Fairy glances up with a focused furrow to her brow, one that immediately clears into surprised delight. “Santana!” she gasps around the candy cane dangling from her lips, blue eyes sparkling above scrunched up cheeks, “What are you doing here?”

Santana grins, and her chest still spasms and flutters like it did the very first time she met those blue eyes. “You didn’t think I’d miss your last show of the year?” she teases as she steps halfway into the room, keeping her back in the doorway to try and keep the bouquet hidden.

Brittany rolls her eyes and carelessly tosses her ballet shoes on the coffee table that Santana’s ate countless lunches and suppers at, crossing the room to greet Santana with a quick peck around the candy cane in her mouth, leaving a sticky line of mint across Santana’s cheek. Santana wants to be annoyed, because she hates sticky candy, but Brittany’s smiling at her and her eyes are surprised and happy and she can’t bring herself to feel even the tiniest bit annoyed. “I know you didn’t want to,” Brittany says, “but you kind of have a show to run at the same time as this one, Ms. I-Made-My-Broadway-Debut-As-Production-Stage-Manager-At-Twenty-Seven.”

Santana just shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m sure they can survive one show with Zizes at the helm.”

Brittany narrows her eyes and puts her hands on her hips, which stretches her bodysuit distractingly tight across her torso, and it takes Brittany clearing her throat a couple of times before Santana’s eyes snap back up to hers—she’s a little self-satisfied, which kind of defeats her attempt at a reprimanding look. “Please tell me you didn’t waste a sick day on watching a show you’ve already seen a billion times before.”

Santana’s grin widens and she shrugs a little. “Who’s to say I didn’t book this day off months in advance because I knew it’d be your last show.”

“I wasn’t even cast months in advance,” Brittany scolds, but there’s a tiny, pleased smile playing at her lips that she can’t quite bite back.

“Maybe I just believe in my girlfriend a whole lot,” Santana shoots back, and before Brittany can even open her mouth to continue their bickering, Santana produces the bouquet of flowers from behind her back and offers them to Brittany.

Santana can actually see the way that Brittany practically melts, all retorts dying on her tongue as she slowly takes the bouquet from Santana with glowing eyes. “You can’t buy my love, you know,” she teases softly, and Santana doesn’t bother hiding the way she basically preens like a parrot seeing their reflection in a mirror at the smile on Brittany’s face and the love glowing in her eyes. 

“They’re the best flowers I’ve ever gotten you,” Santana says proudly.

Brittany laughs a little in the middle of sniffing them, accidentally pressing a couple flowers into her lips at the motion. “Only three broken stems,” she acknowledges with a wide smile, “That’s a new record.”

Santana grins and rises up on her toes expectantly, grinning when Brittany playfully rolls her eyes as she takes the candy cane out of her mouth and ducks down to kiss her, soft and sweet and slow.

Brittany pulls back achingly slowly, and Santana kind of wishes this moment could last forever, even though she gets to kiss Brittany like this every single day. “I should get changed and then we can get out of here,” she says, her minty-sweet breath fanning across Santana’s slightly dazed face.

Santana blinks a couple times before blushing under Brittany’s knowing smirk. She closes the door with her hip and busies herself with her phone while Brittany quickly strips out of her bodysuit and into her comfy clothes—it’s nothing she hasn’t seen before, but she knows that if she so much as glances at Brittany, her plans for the evening are going to fly right out of her head because Brittany is beautiful and distracting and basically impossible to resist.

Brittany appears beside her barely five minutes later, her candy cane back in her mouth and Santana’s favourite scarf wrapped around her neck, her blonde hair loose and flowing over her shoulders as she zips her jacket up. “Ready to go?” 

Santana nods absently and steps out into the hallway, waiting for Brittany to grab the bouquet of flowers off the coffee table and lock her dressing room door before they head down the hallway. Brittany bites into her candy cane and crunches it loudly, and Santana can’t help the tiny smile on her face, because even though she usually finds it annoying when people chew hard candies, she finds everything Brittany does endearing and amusing.

They wave goodbyes and wish Merry Christmases to everyone they pass on their way to the back exit of the theatre, skipping the crowd of people probably still lingering at the front entrance. The cold wind sweeps right through them with a swirl of snowflakes as they step outside, causing them to both shiver and huddle together as they make the trek back to Santana’s apartment, where Brittany’s been spending so much time at, that Santana’s not sure if her girlfriend can even call the apartment she used to share with Mercedes hers anymore. It had gotten lonely, Brittany had admitted, once Mercedes moved in with Sam back in September, and Santana had hinted at the fact that her apartment—which was a little closer to the theatres they both worked at—had more than enough room for the two of them. They’d been quietly intending to move in together without actually saying anything aloud since then, but Brittany’s lease won’t be up until January, so Brittany’s mostly just been using her apartment as a storage space while all her clothes and toiletries and important things are slowly accumulating at Santana’s apartment over the course of the past couple months. 

Brittany’s eyelashes are dusted with snowflakes and her lips and cheeks and ears are more red than usual against the freezing wind and Santana’s never been more in love in her entire life.

Brittany doesn’t say anything when Santana silently tugs her to a stop just to kiss her, but she looks a little bit windswept and a whole lot adoring when she pulls away and they continue on their way. And, when Santana pulls her into a chaotic grocery store, she still doesn’t say anything about it, even when she smiles wide and bright and happy when she recognizes the ingredients for cinnamon buns and World Famous Pierce Hot Chocolate and movie snacks.

They make it home around five thirty, the heat from Santana’s apartment nearly painful on their frozen thighs as they kick off their boots by the mat and hang their jackets on the coat rack. Santana disappears with the groceries and Brittany’s bouquet of flowers while Brittany is still struggling to escape from her scarf, and by the time she hangs up all of her winter gear, Santana is standing in the entrance to the rest of her apartment with a shy smile on her face. Brittany blinks in confusion before slowly stepping forward to take her girlfriend’s outstretched hand and allows her to pull them both through the kitchen and into the living room.

Brittany gasps at the sight before them, and some of the nerves in Santana’s stomach ease into proud delight at the wonder on Brittany’s face. She turns to admire her work, and can’t help smiling a little bit too, knowing that all her rushing around that morning after Brittany left for the theatre was worth it.

The living room is lit only by Christmas lights and the _Home Alone_ title screen on the television and the fairy lights around the bookshelf and the quickly fading winter sun shining weakly in through the window, the kitchen and hall lights flicked off to give the apartment a soft glow. The tree in the corner was the result of Mercedes and Sam’s help; they left Manhattan yesterday to go spend time with family for Christmas, and they had offered their tree to Santana for the rest of the holidays, knowing that Santana was planning on surprising Brittany with a decorated apartment for Christmas Eve. It had been hiding in Santana’s spare closet until this morning after Brittany left for her show, and while Santana’s decorating skills leave something to be desired, it does its job of brightening the living room with a Christmasy glow. The tinsel and glittery trees on the windowsill are courtesy of Mike and Tina, who had answered Santana’s desperate plea for help sometime around eleven with fond eye rolls and no small amount of teasing. The rest of the living room—Christmas patterned blankets and the cookies on the coffee table and the small singing stuffies on the back of the couch and the small stack of presents under the tree—are all Santana though, and she surveys the living room with pride swirling in her stomach.

Brittany turns to Santana with eyes that sparkle in the dim glow of the Christmas decorations, and Santana’s stomach swoops a little at the love that sparkles in her favourite blue eyes.

“I know we’re still not all that into Christmas,” Santana explains, only a little bit bashful under Brittany’s adoring gaze, “and we’ve both been so busy with our shows lately that we haven’t really had time to do anything festive or anything. But I figured we should still get into the spirit at least a little bit, since we have new traditions and everything.”

Santana doesn’t even have time to give Brittany a smile before her girlfriend is cupping her jaw and kissing her fiercely, and Santana can do little more than wrap her arms around Brittany’s waist and kiss her back. Brittany’s mouth is warm and desperate on hers, but her hands are tender and still cold from outside against the sides of her neck, and it’s kind of a little perfect.

“So I take it you like it,” Santana gasps when Brittany finally relents in kissing her, just long enough that Santana can breathe again.

Brittany laughs and kisses Santana repeatedly, a series of quick pecks where she does that thing where she wants to talk and kiss at the same time and just ends up mumbling everything into Santana’s mouth. “Obviously, you giant dork.”

Santana giggles against Brittany and tightens her arms around her girlfriend, nuzzling their noses together and smiling when Brittany’s hands finally slide from her jaw to around her shoulders, tugging her into a tight embrace. “Good,” Santana sighs contently, “because I kind of really liked the new traditions we made last year.”

“That’s cause you got lucky at the end of them,” Brittany snorts against Santana’s hair, giggling and squirming away from Santana when she pinches her hips in retaliation.

“I wasn’t the only one who got _lucky_ that night,” Santana sniffs haughtily, “And if you keep talking like that, you definitely _won’t_ be this year.”

“Please—” Santana can’t see her girlfriend’s face, but she just _knows_ that Brittany is rolling her eyes right now, “—as if you can resist me.”

Santana doesn’t argue that statement, because they both know Brittany’s one-hundred percent correct. “Come on,” she says instead, “we gotta get started on _Home Alone_ so we have time to have supper and make hot chocolate and watch all the other movies and do other stuff like bakin—”

“Mmm,” Brittany interrupts with a hum as she finally pulls away from Santana and starts heading towards the living room, “Am I stuff?”

Santana’s been dating Brittany for a year by now, and it’s not like she’s a stranger to sex with her girlfriend, but she still can’t help the heat she feels rising in her cheeks. Brittany coos teasingly and playfully pokes at Santana’s dimples, even as she smirks and waggles her eyebrows in a suggestive leer. Santana swats at Brittany’s hand and ducks her head, but it does nothing to hide her blush.

Brittany just laughs at her girlfriend’s embarrassed grumbling as Santana throws herself grumpily down on the far end of the couch, shamelessly cuddling up to Santana under the blanket despite Santana’s protests—though, it’s not like Santana is putting up much of a fight considering she immediately sinks into Brittany’s embrace.

The snow continues to fall outside the window, but Santana’s apartment is warm and cozy and the lights from the Christmas tree and the television and the fairy lights on the bookshelf cast the living room in a soft glow. Santana’s pretty positive that she’s going to be doing this for every single Christmas Eve for the rest of her life and, even if she won the lottery or never had to work again or something else that most people dream of when regular life gets too damn depressing, she can’t imagine ever being happier than she is right now.

“Hey,” Brittany says suddenly as Kevin is in the middle of grocery shopping by himself for the first time, and Santana really should know that something’s up by the way her girlfriend tries to bite down on her smirk, “Are we watching _Gremlins_ after this?”

Santana seriously considers suffocating Brittany with the blanket they’re cuddling under, but instead settles on beating her with a pillow, neither of them able to contain their bright laughter as they squirm around on the couch in a one-sided pillow fight.

When _11:11_ comes around after supper and hot chocolate and even more movies (including—at least for Santana—the dreaded _Gremlins_ ), neither of them are even awake to make a wish like last year, the title screen song for _How The Grinch Stole Christmas_ playing through it’s seventh repeat. 

Honestly, it’s completely fine that they miss their new tradition of making a wish at _11:11_ on Christmas Eve, because neither of them have anything else they could ever want for anymore, since they already have each other.


End file.
